Clockwork Gotham
by Arthur Delapore
Summary: Being the further adventures of a young man whose principal interests are rape, ultraviolence and Beethoven. A Clockwork Orange, Batman, and Sin City fanfic. EPISODE EIGHT: A LOATHSOME DAY AT SKOLLIWOLL
1. The Return of Alex

**Clockwork Gotham**

_Note: Alex is not my property, he is the property of Anthony Burgess. This story can be considered both Batman Begins fanfiction and A Clockwork Orange fanfiction. The bizarre but fascinating speech (called Nadsat) that Alex and his droogs use in both Burgess's book and Kubrick's film is complicated but much of it can be deciphered simply from context. Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter. As a bit of background for those who have not read the book or seen the movie, Alex is the amoral, ultra-violence-loving anti-hero of a futuristic Britain. In the movie, he was 'cured' for a time by means of the fictitious Ludovico Technique, which was supposed to make him sick at the sight of violence. However, due to one thing and another, he was uncured and that is where this story picks up. I don't want to add too many more details since I don't want to spoil the movie or book for any of you who haven't read or seen either. They are violent, but if you can stomach them, they are also very fascinating._

**Episode One: The Return of Alex**

It had been a dark time, O my brothers, back in those starry days when like your Humble Narrator was in prison and slooshying all sorts of ultra-violence in an attempt by the dear old government to reform him and bring him back to society as a horrorshow, like Sunday school type malchik. I think a bit of background information is in order, however, particularly if you weren't there to viddy the kind of sufferings and hardships that your Humble Narrator had to undergo amongst the vonny chellovecks and government bratchnies who sent him to the State Prison simply for his doing a bit of the harmless old ultra-violence that he was so very fond of. But then, quite suddenly for all concerned, his jeezhny suddenly took an abrupt turnabout for the better since some oomny scientist invented some form of treatment that was supposed to cure naughty malchicks for good by training them to get all sick and razdrez everytime they viddied a bit of the old ultra-violence. Well, it worked on me for a time, but soon what with one vesch and another, I was cured in an entirely different and much more satisfactory way, my brothers.

There was not much to do that dark cold nochy in February when your Humble Narrator ittied down to the Korova Milkbar feeling quite fagged and ready to hit bedways once he peeted down a bit of the old moloko-plus with his faithful droogies. There were two of them, Ralphie and Jakes, neither of them too choodessny in the gulliver, but then brains aren't always everything. Ralphie, a bolshy coarse sort of veck with a thick-lipped kind of sneer and smeck spent most of his time skriking his gulliver and looking spoogy everytime I gave him the slightest bit of a reprimand, O my brothers. But he was a good and faithful dog, was Ralphie, a real sladky chelloveck who would sooner snuff it than utter a slovo against me, his courageous droog leader. Jakes, more's the pity, was not quite as skorry on the draw, I fear. It was often that he would question his sladky leader (that being me, my brothers) about his wise and oomny decisions, not being dobby enough to simply take my 'yes' for a 'yes' and my '_nyet_' for a '_nyet_.' I would often keep my eye on Jakes, certain that he would soon reach the point when he would want to crast my position as leader of our small band of brothers, but I never thought to expel the nadmenny bastard from my service. After all, I had a feeling it was best to keep an enemy where one could viddy him more comfortably and effectively, rather than letting him loose amongst the lewdies to wreak bezoomy havoc.

So there we sat, my brothers, in the Korova Milkbar, peeting down our milkplus laced with synthmesc and feeling real satisfied with the world at large, when on the television came and though the volume was not turned up too gromky, I could make out that the newscaster veck on the screen was govoreeting about some gloopy chelloveck who had saved some far, far away city named Gotham, a place I'd never even slooshied of in my whole jeezny, from some grazhny bratchnies by the names of Dr. Crane and something unpronounceable, mainly because it sounded to my warbles like something Oriental. Then the news veck told us that this chelloveck who had saved the whole city, dressed in some sort of vonny bat suit, had mysteriously disappeared, leaving the millicents of that city all scratching their gullivers and wondering whether he was part of their shlaga or just another veck on the side of crime like my brothers and I.

Personally, I thought that any chelloveck who went amongst the lewdies garbed in the heighth of bat fashion and not even giving out one slovo about who he was, was out of his rasoodock. Ralphie let out a smeck and said, "Wonder if he'll itty on down here to London! That'd be a sight worth viddying!"

Jakes glanced at me and I could see a grazhny look hit his litso as he muttered real sarky-like, "Might at least give us something more interesting-ways to do, more than Alex has given us these last few days. Might be a more interesting veck in the long run, too."

"Appy polly oggie, my dear old droogie," I skazatted back with a real sladky smile as if I was like real concerned all of a sudden about Jakes' well-being, health and all that cal. "Perhaps I did not slooshy you correctly. Art thou, perchance, growing tired of your generous droog leader who hast done so much for thee and thy fellow comrades? Perhaps you have not peeted down enough of your moloko-plus, righty-right, my brother?"

As I skazatted and smecked away, I poured the white moloko out of a pitcher on the counter and handed it, still with that skorry sladky smile on my litso, to my grumbling droogie. He peeted at it with a like real sour expression, but I could tell that I had him quiet for the meantime anyway.

"Now, now, now, my little droogies," I said softly. "Are we all feeling strong and ready to perform a bit of the old ultra-violence on the lewdies tonight?"

Ralphie let out a happy smeck of agreement but Jakes still had that merzky glower on his litso.

"What sort of crast are we pulling tonight…my _brother_?" he skazatted this last in a tone that made me real razdraz, but I kept that same innocent, sladky smile, though inwardly I was beginning to have suspicions about dear old Jakes, more than ever before.

"Perchance some vesch that will interessovat thou and dispel from thy rasoodock any rebellious thoughts that may be haunting thy gulliver," I sipped at the moloko and glanced from one to the other. "Something real horrorshow. Let us, my droogies, itty out of this vonny place and enjoy what's left of the nochy."

And with that, O my brothers, we left the Korova Milkbar and with a feeling of choodessny bliss at the thought of all the fun and excitement head of us, sauntered down the street searching out trouble.


	2. A Nozh Drat in the Dark

**Episode Two: A Nozh Drat in the Dark**

Now as you may remember, O my brothers, your Humble Narrator was feeling a bit fagged and ready to have a malenky bit of a lie-down, but what with the ghrazny insinuations of my treacherous droog Jakes, I loveted on to the fact that I would have to do something real unexpected and horrorshow to like help them viddy what a clever and oomny leader was I. And I knew just what bit of zammechat bliss and ultra-violence would be perfect for that nochy.

"Let us, my little droogies, go straightaways to my dwelling and there thou shalt have all the bliss thou cravest," I govoreeted in a like low goloss, the breath from my rot coming out all fog-like, it being such a cold nochy.

"What will we do?" Jakes skazatted back, still glaring at your Humble Narrator with that same merzky look.

"Put all thy gloopy fears to rest, my brother," said I as we continued walking through that lonely mesto towards my domy.

All of a sudden, out of the oozhasny darkness of that dim alley, I viddied a shaika of chellovecks ittying towards your Humble Narrator and his droogs. And then it hit me in the guttiwuts who this particular gruppa of vonny brazhnys was and why I remembered them so clearly, O my brothers. It was grazhny, gromky old Billyboy himself and his cally bunch of droogs, who would think it nothing less than choodessny to stick a bhritva in your Humble Narrator, especially since he'd done such a horrorshow job of tolchoking them in the last rough-and-tumble drat they'd fought.

"If it isn't little Alex!" Billyboy said in that uncultured goloss of his. "Only just now got out of prison, eh, my little droog?"

I smiled all innocence, O my brothers. "Welly, welly, welly, well," saith I. "If my glazzies do not betray me, it is none other than Billyboy, my old friend and comrade! Many a night of dratting and tolchoking we've enjoyed, eh, thou brazhny veck, thou? Art thou eager and desirous for another horrorshow kick in the guttiwuts?"

Billyboy's litso turned a most merzky shade of purple but I felt a warm, sladky feeling come all over my plott, for things were just as they had been in the lovely, free days of old. Billyboy and his gang grabbed their shiny sharp nozhs and I unsheathed my long, sweeping britva from out of my cane and plunged forth into the midst of the stracks.

At first, as the bezhoomny fight nachinatted, I felt that my droogs would gain the upper rooker, but I soon viddied that, though dratting like bezhoomny, they were as inexperienced as young devotchkas in the art of tolchoking and that in several minootas they were ookadeeted senseless and it was your Humble Narrator left all on his oddy-knocky against Billyboy's vonny gruppa.

I kept the grazhny vecks off me for as long as I could but soon, my brothers, they razrezzed my britva from me and having me now declawed, tolchoked at me, smecking all the while, and clearly waiting for me to creech out some slovos begging for mercy. I did not give them that satisfaction, however, deciding it best to lie still and wait to viddy what new vesch they'd think up for me.

Billyboy, seeing me down and all covered with the red krovvy, ordered his droogs to desist their tolchoking and coming towards me as I lay there, feeling ready to snuff it, he skazatted in a deep and mighty goloss, "Well, well, my little Alex, got any apologies for us? We've got you down as you did us and I'm wondering, what should we do with you, hmm?"

"I won't govoreet a single slovo," I replied. "A grazhny, bolshy bastard thou art and always shall be!" And I spat out the krovvy that was still filling my rot straight in his glazzies.

He blinked and let out a creech of like bezhoomny anger and I viddied then that I was most likely about to leave this world that minoota, for he seized his sharp and shining nozh and made at me as if to plunge it through me.

And then, O my brothers, it was like a great flapping and blur of black seemed to surround us and I viddied Billyboy and his vecks fall backwards and start running, and I could slooshy them yelling and creeching until my glazzies started to dim and my gulliver whirled from the many tolchoks it had received, and I sank into the deep sleep I had longed for.


	3. A Drive in the Durango

**Episode Three: A Drive in the Durango**

It was a long time, O my brothers, before your Humble Narrator—all grahzny and merzky for being covered with his own krovvy and feeling not a little bolnoy—recovered his consciousness and awoke to find himself lying on the cally street with the rain a-plesking and splooging at his gulliver. I could viddy nothing in that mesto at first, for my glazzies were still blurry and like feeble with pain after the tolchoking that had been administered to them by Billyboy and company, but I could make out my old bhritva lying all oddy-knocky on the wet pavement, and with not a few sad messels, resheathed it in my cane and looked skorrily about for any sign of my poogly droogs.

What razdrazzed me the most, my brothers and friends, about the whole oozhassny affair was not that I had been tolchocked and nearly nozhed by vonny old Billyboy, but that I found myself feeling a bit of the old sickness like what I'd felt after that treatment the bratchnies back at the Staja had given me. I could not understand it nor did I want to, feeling ready to platch what with the rain drip drip dripping off my plott and the coldness of the nochy creeping all over. I surmised that my faithless droogs had most likely ookadeeted out of that mesto after seeing their brave leader tolchocked so horrorshow.

However, this sad messel had hardly reached my rasoodock when I heard creeching moans nearby and I viddied my prostrate droogs rising from the ghrazny dirt of the street and looking about for me. I kashled and coughed feebly, O my brothers, and slooshying this, they stumbled towards me, most likely thinking me dead or some form of cal such as that.

"Alex, are you alive?" I heard Ralphy govoreet in a like real weepy goloss.

"Pray, shed no more tears for thy malenky droog," I skazatted, sitting up carefully and none too skorrily either, O my brothers, for my guttiwuts still felt good and ready to spill out. "Wipe thy glazzies and let's be off. Apart from the fact that thy courageous droog leader has suffered bolshy tolchoks at the un-cheested claws of Billyboy and his baddiwad malchikiwicks, all is still horrorshow with the world."

"Righty-right," Ralphy sniffed, rubbing at his glazzies with the back of his rooker. Jakes stood by, his litso appearing all the more bezhoomny after our latest drat.

"So what now, O my faithful leader?" he asked in that gruff, ghrazny way of his.

"As you can viddy, molodoy droog of mine, the pain in my keeshkas is too great for me to gooly about all on my oddy-knocky," I said in a most sladky, pathetic-like goloss. "Therefore, it will be necessary for thee to make thyself polezny and itty me over to my chariot of transportation."

Jakes commenced an exasperated chumbling, but he took one end of Your Humble Narrator and faithful Ralphie took the other and together, O my brothers, they ittied me over to my Durango '95 which awaited me outside the dear old Korova. I inched myself with much gingerness into the cockpit of my beloved maschinya but once I had my rookers fastened on the wheel, I felt a sense of like zammechat power once again. Ralphie and Jakes clambered into the back and with a skorry twist of the klootch, I slooshied the engine going a-chug chug chug and we yeckated down the road, the rain still pittering down on our gullivers, us mindless all the while and lost to the joy of the speed and slooshying to the zvooks of lovely Ludwig Van who was playing on the maschinya stereo, since a tape of his I had left in the Durango. It was the horrorshow second movement of the Ninth Symphony that we slooshied, which was like the sneety of all aspiring kompozeetrels amongst the lewdies to match in their own malenky little musical compositions. But they never could match him for all their rabbiting, O my brothers, for old Ludwig Van was full of the like choodessny inspiration of Bog and His Holy Angels themselves, just like that monk veck who went by the gloopy name of 'Caedmon' back in those starry medieval times and who your Humble Narrator slooshied about in skolliwoll from the teacher chellovecks. This Caedmon veck was supposed to have had some angel come down from the deep blue and this angel govoreeted to him how to write down some hymn or some such warble and then the abbess of this starry old monastery that Caedmon was droogie with decided to admit him into their shlaga once she had sent him to monk skolliwoll and he had learned all things proper. This was typical, thought I—even if a poor chelloveck is having govoreets with Bog Himself, if a devotchka gets her rookers on him, he'll be sent to vonny classes anyhow.

"Didst thou know, O my brother, that old Ludwig Van wrote this particular symphoniya when he was deaf?" I govoreeted to Jakes, carefully maneuvering the Durango down the plesky road crowded with the vehicles and maschinyas of other chellovecks and malchicks.

"Who is Ludwig Van?" Jakes asked, gloopy as always.

"Beethoven," I said, trying hard not to smeck.

"No, I did not know that fact," Jakes skazatted, making ghrazny noises at the passing lewdies.

I decided that any intelligent govoreet with Jakes was doomed from birth. "Trouble not thy rasoodock with such high and oomny messels, then," saith I. "Let us itty to my domy like I sovieted before we were waylaid by vonny old Billyboy."

"Will your mum and dad like viddying us in their house?" Ralphie asked, all poogly.

"Fear not, molodoy malchickiwick that thou art," I said, keeping a sharp glazzie on the road, the traffic being more twisty and bezhoomny than was usual, even in the nochy. "They shall think it horrorshow to viddy what sort of droogies their only son and heir hast, verily."

This put the troops to rest for the minoota and Your Humble Narrator turned his valuable attention back to navigating towards his domy. However, as we in the Durango rested beneath a red light with the rest of the lewdies in their own maschinyas, I viddied a gruppa of vonny bratchnies in a bolshy, heavy-looking vehicle parked beside us; this vessel of theirs sat so high, O my brothers, that I guessed I could drive my Durango right underneath her. And these ghrazny bastards had the volume in their maschinya turned so high that they had drowned out lovely old Ludwig Van.

This made Your Humble Narrator a malenky bit bezhoomny for the warbles that they were slooshying were those very primitive-type warbles that were mainly consisting of gromky drum beats and the run-together slovos of various vonny-sounding vecks horning about tolchoking their mums and crasting veschs. The decay of our society, thought I with a smeck, thinking of my starry old post-corrective advisor P.R. Deltoid. But these warbles simply were not music to my ookas and I viddied that something had to be done. So I twisted the old Durango's volume knob a malenky bit higher until I could slooshy Ludwig Van over the like uncultured golosses of the gromky sods beside us. But no sooner had I done so, O my brothers, than the bastards skorrily turned their own warbles' volume up.

This I could not have, so creeching over the roar of their vonny warble, I govoreeted: "Hi, hi, hi, couldst thou kindly desist from turning thy ape-like warbles up at such an unnatural and bezhoomny heighth, my brothers? It dost make my ookas bolnoy to slooshy them, verily."

The vonny vecks grinned, smecked and spat a wad of gum in Your Humble Narrator's general direction. "Deal with it," said they in like very coarse golosses.

I viddied that my droogs were as bezhoomny as I was by these slovos, though Ralphie looked a bit poogly since our last bitva had not gone so horrorshow.

"Maybe we should just leave them be this nochy, right right?" he asked me.

I tapped my cane and govoreeted, "Taketh from the trunk of this maschinya my pliers."

Without a slovo, my droogies did as I sovieted and bequeathed me this instrument which Your Humble Narrator would use to wield the destruction of these gromky bastards. The light did not seem ready to change from red to green for many minootas, so skorrily climbing out of the old Durango, I ittied towards their vonny old maschinya. They did not even viddy me, for they were too busy slooshying their jungle warbles, so unstopped, I oodled my way underneath their maschinya and with the pair of pliers in my rooker, I managed to cut their major cables real horrorshow. I had viddied or slooshied somewhere once that this type of maschinya or vehicle had most of its major cables underneath, so I decided that this was a zammechat way of viddying whether this was really true or not, O my brothers. And skorrier than saying 'jack knife', I slooshied that their warble had shut off with a bolnoy squeak and all was silence, save for old Ludwig Van and the zammechat Ninth.

I ittied back to the Durango, my droogs smecking at the looks of like bezhoomny bewilderment on the litsos of the uncultured vonnies as they tried to viddy what had caused their warble to snuff it. When they viddied Your Humble Narrator back in the cockpit of the Durango holding the pliers and smecking along with the rest, their litsos turned all ghrazny and they shook their rookers at us. At that minoota, however, the light turned green and with a quick tolchok to the pedal, we were yeckhating down the road once again.

The bratchnies were all viddying red and gave chase after us, thirsty for your Humble Narrator's krovvy and eager for a vengeful drat. I had half a rasoodock to grant them that wish, O my brothers, and as starry fate would have it, at the next stop light, the bratchnies found that their baddiwad breakys had failed and that they could not stop at the light, much as they may have wanted to. They ran straight off the road, direct into a tree; not a too horrorshow collision, my brothers, but enough to make them look all bolnoy and razdraz when they clambered out of their maschinya.

Your Humble Narrator and his faithful droogs pulled up alongside their maschinya, smecking fit to tolchock the band. With creeching roars of gloopy, grazzy fury, they made at us and the second drat of that nochy commenced. But as I swung at the soddies with my shining bhritva, I could slooshy lovely Ludwig Van and the Ninth, and I could viddy myself slashing and smashing at their guttiwuts and I leapt upon them, tolchoking ceaseless until they creeched for mercy. I viddied that there was one veck still in their maschinya with two frightened-looking devotchkas. A coward, thought I, and fair game for Your Humble Narrator, and with these messels racing through my gulliver, I made at the door of the maschinya, pulled it open, and seized the bratchny by the gorlo, thrusting him into the fray with the rest of his fallen or nearly-fallen droogs.

This veck, however, was a sly, ghrazny type, however, and he swung one of those pepper-spray vesches from out his carmen with the intention of putting Your Humble Narrator's precious glazzies out. I was skorrier on the draw, however, and slashed at his rooker, causing him to drop it. With a creech, he pounced on me and my bhritva fell useless on the ground as we hit earth together, him trying to squeeze the jheezny out of me and I clawing like bezhoomny at his vonny plott. He had me loveted, however, and I viddied, or thought I viddied anyhow, that there was no escape. But then I slooshied the Ninth hitting its glorious heighth, with zammechat violins lashing and horns creeching, and I felt a new surge of oozhassny bliss and radosty and with a fisting tolchok to the litso, I had my veck down and unconscious with the rest who lay creeching and moaning on the ground, alive but humbled.

"Perhaps thou viddiest now what sort of warbles thou shouldst slooshy and what type warbles are best left to snuff it, righty-right, my brothers?" I govoreeted in a pleasant, horrorshow-like goloss.

"Righty-right," they creeched skorrily.

Sheathing my bhritva back in my cane, I sauntered towards their maschinya with the intension of vredding their popdisks so that they could no longer like harm society with their ghrazny tastes in music. However, I viddied the two devotchkas itty out of the maschinya, a-shivering and looking all poogly at sight of Your Humble Narrator.

"Fear not, sweet devotchkas," saith I in my most sladky goloss. "Thou hast nothing to fear with thy malenky little droog. Come with us for a horrorshow bit of a drive in the old Durango! No terrors shalt harm thee there."

"We aren't going with any more moodges in cars, ever again, no we shan't!" they skazatted and raced down the road away from us. We smecked a bit at this, but didn't bother giving chase, the nochy not being so young anymore. Clambering back in the Durango, we yeckhated back on the road, still ittying towards Your Humble Narrator's domy. It was only a matter of minootas, however, before we reached the apartment building in which I had lived with my Pee and Em before being sent to the Staja for being so very naughty and baddiwad as I was. As I remembered, they had taken in some vonny roomer named Joe who had said more than one nasty slovo to Your Humble Narrator last time he had goolied towards his own domy looking for shelter. But that, my brothers, was when that ghrazny treatment had still been in effect and I had been unable to do a single vesch about him. But now that I had been cured of Ludovico and his bolnoy treatments and was free and happy as before, I had afeeling that things would go quite differently between dear old Joe and I.

"Come, come, come, my droogie ones," I govoreeted as we goolied up the stairs towards my Pee and Em's apartment room. "Something zammechat and horrorshow awaits thee in thy droog leader's domy. Wait and you shall viddy all."


	4. A Trip to Sin City

**Episode Four: A Trip to Sin City**

As you may recall, O my brothers and only friends, your Humble Narrator and his two loyal droogs had goolied homeways according to plan and were left standing at the door of his dear old Pee and Em's apartment, hoping for a horrorshow bit of sport to wrap up the nochy. Well, I gave the door two sharp clops, us not being rich enough to afford a proper bellpush, but all was stillness and silence and no answer greeted Your Humble Narrator and his weary band of malchiks. We waited several minootas and when still no veck came forth out of my domy to greet us, I decided to take matters into my own rookers. Taking my old klootch out of my carmen, I fitted it into the lock and with a skorry twist, I had the door unlocked.

It surprised me a malenky bit that my Pee and Em were not at the old domy, but I decided to ignore that fact for the minoota and with a like gentlemanly flourish, I ushered my molodoy droogies inside. Swinging my cane over my shoulder, I sallied forth towards what my Pee and Em liked to govoreet about as the 'living room' to viddy what exactly was about. And who do you suppose met your Humble Narrator's glazzies first, lazing about on the plushy sofa like some bolshy king or some other such form of cal? That cruel, vonny bratchny Joe, who had been such a like ghrazny coward after I was still under the Ludovico and had cast your Humble Narrator out of his very own domy, O my brothers, under the heedless glazzies of his treacherous Pee and Em.

But times were different, thought I, and the Ludovico was now a poogly vesch of the past. So in a deep and like solemn goloss, I intoned, "Rise, thou bastard, from off mine sofa and face me, if thou hast the guttiwutts to do so!"

With a start of bolshy terror, Joe jumped rightways and stared at Your Humble Narrator with his glazzies looking right and ready to pop out and a screwed-up, bezhoomny look.

"Who're you, you hooligan, breaking into other people's houses, are you?" he skazatted in a loud and trembly goloss.

"Thy expression is one of filth and cal and most unbecoming on thy litso, O my brother," I govoreeted, poking my cane in his guttiwuts just hard enough to let him know that I had a bit of the old ultra-violence in mind for him. My droogs smecked and guffawed.

However, before I could govoreet some more, Joe fisted up his rookers and gave my droogs next to me two horrorshow tolchoks in the litsos and, O my brothers, they keeled over on the carpet, out of the heat of the drat once more. Now this Joe bratchny was a gulliver taller than Your Humble Narrator and I knew from past experience that he was a ghrazny type as well, so I was a malenky bit nervous to find myself all on my oddy knocky with this mad veck. But, as I once govoreeted to my droogs Dim and Georgie from the starry days of yore before they had fully turned traitor, "initiative comes to thems that wait." And so, O my brothers, Your Humble Narrator took a flying leap straight at the bastard, clawing and skriking at his gorlo. We fell then in a tangled, dratsing, fisting, scratching heap on the floor, my tactic being to tolchok as horrorshow as I could until I had him down and Joe's tactic being to grip Your Humble Narrator in a tight, bolshy grasp until both breath and jheezny were squeezed out.

It was a jammiwam such as this that my Pee and Em stumbled on when they opened the door and viddied us lying on the floor, Joe still rassoodocklessly squeezing and me tolchoking away, near breathless.

"So you boys have met," Pee said, slumping in an armchair.

Joe got up, dusting himself off with a like satisfied smirk on his rot. I lay all motionless, hoping that my bolnoy appearance would arouse a, like, motherly sympathy in my Em.

"Oh, the poor boy still hasn't recovered from the Treatment," Em shook her head.

"Hmph. He's recovered enough to attempt an unsuccessful attack on me," Joe muttered. "Look at his fallen comrades down there that he brought."

Pee and Em stared with like shocked expressions at Ralphy and Jakes who were just nachinatting to awaken and groaning all feeble. They quickly sat upways when they viddied my Pee and Em.

"Mr. and Mrs. DeLarge?" they skazatted skorrily. "We are droogs of your son Alex and he told us we could itty hear, you see…"

"No explanation is necessary," I govoreeted from where I lay on the carpet. "Gooly forth and leave us on our oddy knocky now."

Ralphy and Jakes ittied out as ordered and I gave a soft malenky little groan.

"Get him to bed immediately, Joe," my Pee said.

"Yes, please, Joe," Em said, sniffing a bit. "Poor boy."

I viddied Joe roll his glazzies, but he lifted Your Humble Narrator off the fluffy carpet and carried me, none too tenderly, towards beddiwed in my cubie.

"Don't think I'm sorry for giving you those knocks, neither," Joe muttered, as I changed out of my old, now vonny garb and snuggled beneath the clean, cheested white bedsheets. "Though I didn't recognize you when you barged in like the bloody hooligan you are."

"That surpriseth me not," I govoreeted in a less than droogie goloss.

Another britva might have started then and there, O my brothers, but my Pee and Em happened to itty in to check on their only son (that being Y.H.N.).

"Are you feeling better now, son?" Pee asked.

"A bit more horrorshow, dad," I govoreeted in tones of feebleness.

"Glad to hear that, son," he said.

"How was the factory today, dad?" I asked.

Pee and Em exchanged oomny glances.

"We didn't go to the factory today, son," Pee said.

"Didn't get fired or anything, did you?" I asked.

"No, not fired exactly," Pee skazatted with a funny look. "You see, we got a call from the Minister of the Interior himself today. He said he would give you and us a pension for the rest of our lives because of the damage done to you, son. Because of the Treatment, you know."

I nodded. I understood full well now why they were acting so precious and careful of Your Humble Narrator. However, I govoreeted nothing and merely closed my glazzies as if I was like ready to sleep now.

"Leave him be now, Dad," I heard Em say and presently I heard them leave my cubie. And after several minootas I really did sink into sleep, O my brothers, deep and dreamless.

* * *

I awoke and viddied through half-closed glazzies the morning light shining in my litso. I turned skorrily, burying my gulliver in my plushy podooshkas, hoping to snatch a few more minootas of blissful sleep. However, I sensed as I did so, that there was some other veck in my cubie, watching Your Humble Narrator. I could not tell who it might be and I did not feel like govoreeting to any veck at that moment, so I pretended to be already asleep once more.

However, I felt the bed bounce a malenky bit and ponied that my unwelcome visitor had ittied over and decided to sit themselves down next to me. Now what sort of chelloveck that I knew of would have the nadmenny nerve to do such a thing? A name came to my rassodock, but I banished it skorilly as being impossible. But then I slooshied a goloss that proved beyond the dook of a doubt that my oozhassny fears were accurate:

"Alex-boy, feeling better are we, _yes?_"

I turned over, an accusing look in my glazzies. "Mr. Deltoid, is it?" I govoreeted. "If I remember correctly, the last time we met involved you spitting some of your glop in my glazzies."

"A bad time that was, yes," Mr. Deltoid said, gazing reminiscently at Your Humble Narrator. "Don't think of it, my boy. Now that I have been chosen as your Post Post-Corrective Advisor, we must get along again, eh? You have your life ahead of you, yes? And you've been thinking of what sort of career you're intending to pursue? All of this you must consider…yes." His voice drifted a malenky bit until it trailed away.

I decided, though I still felt fashed, to make a polite effort to govoreet. "So, are things looking good these days, brother—sir, I mean?" I asked lamely.

He glanced at me with a funny smile and said, "Oh, yes, yes…things are looking good all right, as you say…yes…so what is it that you wish to do with yourself, now that you are free in the world again, my boy?"

"I would like to find my treacherous droogs Dim and Georgie, for starters, sir," I replied.

"I would bet that you would, yes," Mr. Deltoid ruffled my hair with a like reproving smirk. "And what would you do once you found them, little Alex?"

"I would like to show the rest of the lewdies what sort of ghrazny chellovecks they really are, sir," I replied. "They are a part of the millicents now, are they not?"

"They are part of the police force, yes…" Mr. Deltoid said. "It has not been proved, after all, that they are guilty of any crimes, you see."

"Are they still here in London, sir?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so, I think they moved, yes…" Mr. Deltoid pondered for a minoota. "I believe they moved to a place called Sin City, still working as police officers, my boy."

"That's where I have to itty off to, then," I govoreeted in a like tone of finality.

"That's all right, yes, you have a right to itty off wherever way you wish, little Alex," P.R. Deltoid said with an annoying fond goloss that was beginning to drive me bezhoomny, O my brothers. "Sin City it is, then, yes? Well, I shall make all necessary preparations and we shall go there at once, yes."

"We?" I repeated skorrily.

"Of course, you are still a boy, yes," Mr. Deltoid said. "You cannot be expected to go alone. And as your Post Post-Corrective Advisor, I must be close by anyhow…yes…"

I didn't think this too horrorshow, but I decided not to skazat anything for the minoota.

"Thank you, sir," I govoreeted. Mr. Deltoid stood up, still smiling down at Your Humble Narrator.

"I shall call on you again soon, yes," he said absent-mindedly. "Until then, goodbye, little Alex." As he reached the door, he added, "By the way, there are two young ladies waiting to see you, my boy. Shall I show them in or tell them you are too tired?"

I was a malenky bit bewildered as to why two devotchkas would be calling on Your Humble Narrator and wishing to govoreet with him in beddiwed, but I decided not to smot a gift horse in the rot.

"Show them in, sir," I said, lying back on my podooshkas and wondering what horrorshow surprise was in store.


	5. Two Devotchkas

**Episode Five: Two Devotchkas**

I slooshied Mr. Deltoid govoreeting outside my door as I waited, all anticipation, O my brothers. And then in came two devotchkas carrying two bolshy baskets in their rookers and having beaming smiles on their litsos. Your Humble Narrator's rot dropped open in shock and he was able to govoreet not a slovo, so great was his surprise.

"Oh, we heard you'd been feeling a bit ill in the gulliver, Alex dear!" one of the devotchkas said, giggling a bit. She was blonde and wearing a white dress and the other devotchka was a brunette and wearing purple—both of them adorned in the heighth of Nadsat fashion, O my brothers. They ittied over to Your Humble Narrator and like jumped on the bed, opening their baskets all the while and still beaming.

"Ow, ow!" quoth I.

"Oh, is something wrong, Alex?" they asked, viddying Your Humble Narrator in such visible pain.

"Nothing, only…" I groaned. "Thou and thy droogie friend hast landed straight on my nogas in a most uncomfortable manner."

"Oh, it wasn't _me_, Alex!" the brunette devotchka creeched in like bezhoomny outrage, giving her blonde droog a whack on the gulliver. They were about to have a koshka fight right there over Your Humble Narrator's plott, if I hadn't managed to govoreet skorrily: "So art thou really and truly the two horrorshow devotchkas I met one noonday in a certain popdisk store?"

"Really and truly, we are!" the brunette said in a tender goloss, beaming again. "And we had a time, we did, trying to find you again!"

"Well, how did you?" I inquired.

"It wasn't easy," the blonde interrupted in a sharp goloss. "It was purely by chance, in fact. You see, in school the government has just recently instituted a special program: Adopt-A-Convict!"

"What!" I govoreeted in a like shocked and hurt goloss.

"That's right, you see—" the brunette glared at the other devotchka. "On Adopt-A-Convict day we had to pick through different cards, sort of like postcards, with pictures of the different convicts on them and they're addresses and such. Because, you see, we're supposed to come and minister these convicts as charity work to make ourselves beneficial to the world."

"Mmm-hmm," the blonde nodded her gulliver in agreement. "And I saw your face on one of the postcards and you were listed as Alex DeLarge and I recognized you _instantly_."

"Actually, _I _saw him first," the brunette snapped skorrily.

"No, sorry, _I _did," the blonde smirked.

"But what was I _doing _in a such a humiliating, ghrazny collection such as that?" I asked, feeling grieved, O my brothers, and not a little bezhoomny at the Minister of the Interior and his government chellovecks who had seemed so droogie before, for putting me in such a program for the lewdies to sneer at.

"Oh, don't take it so hard, Alex!" the brunette sniffed and cuddled Your Humble Narrator affectionately. "After all, if it hadn't been for this program, we wouldn't have been able to _adopt _you!"

"I've been adopted by you two devotchkas?" I asked, a bit nervous at this alarming mesto.

"Of course!" the brunette said. "Isn't it wonderful? We're here to take care of you and protect you now!"

"But how long is this going to last?" I govoreeted, still nervous.

The brunette pulled out a malenky bit of paper from out her carmen and read aloud in a professional goloss: "For an indeterminate amount of time."

"Hmmm…" I mumbled, having not yet made up my rassoodock as to whether this was all so horrorshow or not. "So what hast thou in that great, bolshy basket of thine, my little sisters?"

The devotchkas giggled and pulled out some candied apples, grapes, and other such sweetmeat type veschs. "These are to cheer you up and get you back on your feet," the brunette said.

"But I already _was _on my feet," I govoreeted with a sigh, still a malenky bit poogly at the thought of two devotchkas monitoring Your Humble Narrator's every move. Still, thought I, best to make the most of this gloopy situation. "So are we going to have a horrorshow bit of fun like last time?" I inquired, all hopeful.

"You don't _even _know our names," the brunette devotchka clucked her tongue.

"Appy polly oggies, I did not even think to ask, fair devotchkas," I govoreeted sleepily. "Please reveal them to your malenky droog, by all means."

"Well, I'mMary Anne," the blonde devotchka said, batting her glazzies.

"And _I'm _Josie," the brunette said, cuddling closer.

I sighed. "This has all been real horrorshow, my dorogoy sisters," I admitted. "But I must get up soon and get myself packed and ready to leave dear old London."

"What!" they both creeched at once, springing on me.

"Oh, ow," I groaned, near suffocation.

"Why are you leaving?" Josie demanded.

"How _can _you, Alex?" Mary Anne govoreeted in a weepy goloss.

"And where are you going, _anyway?_" Josie interrupted.

"I have to itty over to Sin City," I explained in a careful, precise goloss, hoping not to alarm them again so that they would not give me anymore unnecessary tolchocks and injure me even more seriously.

"But _why?_" they creeched.

"Because my ghrazny false droogs Dim and Georgie are there and I cannot let the tolchoks they administered to me in the starry past go by unheeded, my little sisters," I replied.

They both exchanged skorry, sly glances at each other. "Fine, then," they said. "And we'll come with you!"


	6. The Malenky Details of Departure

**Episode Six: The Malenky Details of Departure  
**  
Well, my brothers, Your Humble Narrator finally managed to shoo off the pretty ptitsas so that he could get to the bolshy, serious work of packing for that vengeful trip of his to Sin City. They left, uttering more malenky little devotchka slovos about following me, but I felt that I was safe from them for the nonce.

Only one light, malenky little suitcase did I have, hardly more than a ghrazny knapsack, but then again, Your Humble Narrator had few possessions to call his own—my real pride and zammechat joy being my Ludwig Van diskies, which took up most of the room in my baggy.

As I zipped the vesch close, I slooshied the door to my cubie open and I viddied my Post Post-Corrective Advisor Mr. Deltoid.

"Ready now, Alex-boy?" he asked, a smile on his rot.

"Right, sir," I govoreeted. "Let me just get my toothbrush."

"Very well," he said, still with that same gloopy indulgent smile covering his litso. I was hoping, O my brothers, that I could itty out the bathroom window, still wanting to be all on my oddy-knocky when I goolied to Sin City. But these messels perished skorrily when I viddied Mr. Deltoid following close behind, watching.

With a malenky little sigh of momentary defeat, Your Humble Narrator skvatted the toothbrush and put it in his carman, donning a sladky, innocent smile as he did so.

"Welly well, Mr. Deltoid," I skazatted. "Where to now, sir?"

"We will go to Basin City now—or as you young nadsats call it—_Sin _City, yes," he smecked. "And then you are free to do all the searching-out of your little friends that you wish."

"Where will we stay, sir?" I asked, a bit poogly since I hadn't enough pretty polly in my carmen to stay at a hotel for an indefinite period of nochies.

"Oh, I wouldn't trouble my head about that if I were you, my boy," he had another smeck and put a fond rooker about my pletchoes. "As it happens, my boy, I have a little country home on the outskirts of Basin City, yes. What do you think of staying there, eh?"

Well, my brothers, what Your Humble Narrator was thinking was a few buggatty messels that wouldn't look all that horrorshow in print. But I govoreeted, trying to keep the disappointment from being slooshied from the tone of my goloss, "That sounds real horrorshow, sir."

"I thought you would think so, yes," Mr. Deltoid said as we goolied out of my domy.

"Oughtn't I to tell my Pee and Em about my departure?" I asked, a bit bewildered at my gloopy Post Post-Corrective Advisor's apparent unconcern.

"We can call them once we're there…yes," he said, as if his rassoodock was turning over other messels that minoota and had not quite slooshied what I'd just govoreeted.

"Right, well…" I skazatted, a bit nervous. "I'd like to call on some of my droogs and tell them where I'm ittying off to, sir."

"Oh, I don't like that idea," he smecked as we got in his maschinya and started yeckating down the road.

"But why not, sir?" I asked, growing more and more poogly by the minoota.

He beamed at me and put a, like, cuddlesome rooker on Your Humble Narrator's knee. "Well, little Alex's friends didn't do him so much good last time, did they?" he pointed out, a smile on his rot.

I frowned and ittied a malenky bit farther back in my seat, attempting an unsuccessful retreat from his gloopy touch. "Look, sir," I said, once again attempting a sweet, innocent smile on my own litso. "I've gone straight now, I promise you. I've been horrorshow all this time out of the Staja. You can rely on me, sir, believe me. My droogs aren't the ghrazny types I used to hang out with many a nochy."

"That's what little Alex says, but the _last _time you said I could rely on you, well…" Mr. Deltoid clucked his tongue and chuckled. "I'll make my own mind up on you and your friends, yes."

This govoreet, my brothers, was not going all that horrorshow at all and was making me a malenky bit bezhoomny, but I skazatted nothing. Mr. Deltoid beamed, interpreting my lack of slovos as some sort of merzky sign of submission, I suppose.

"Don't take it so hard, my boy," he said. "After all, at least for now you have _me_ to help you, eh?"


	7. The Home of Mr PR Deltoid

**Episode Seven: The Home of Mr. P. R. Deltoid**  
_A note to readers: Thanks to you all for keeping up with this story and I hope that this latest chapter lives up to all your expectations! To Muu, thanks for reviewing this story, and yes, this fanfic is more for the movie _Clockwork Orange _than the book. And never fear – Dim, Georgie, and Pete are coming! But in the meantime, let us pick up where we were with Alex and his Post Corrective Advisor – erm, sorry, _Post _Post Corrective Advisor. They have just arrived in Basin City – otherwise known as Sin City – and are driving towards Mr. Deltoid's home on the outskirts of the City...(By the way, special thanks to the group "She Wants Revenge" for their song and I hope they don't mind my Nadsat-ing it for the story)

* * *

_

The bolshy long drive from the airport to my Post Post-Corrective Advisor's domy was more poogly than even I had thought possible, O my brothers. Firstly, I tried to turn on the radio that Mr. Deltoid had installed in his maschinya, hoping to get rid of the like oozhazny silence that had settled between us. There was some remix by that singer chelloveck Johnny Zhivago of that starry old warble "Tear You Apart." Well, Your Humble Narrator thought this warble rather horrorshow in its own malenky way, and so I began singing along, "I want to hold you close, plott pressed against me tight, lie still, close thy glazzies, my devotchka, so horrorshow it feels so right…I want to hold you close, soft groodies near me hard, as I whisper in your ooka, I want to tear you apart –"

"What's all this talk, my boy?" Mr. Deltoid govoreeted with a half-yawn, turning the radio off with a snap. "All this business of groodies and lying still? Not the sort of thing a young boy should fill his head with…yes."

I viddied at that moment that we were passing out of the city down a country road, feeling not a little bezhoomny at my Post Post-Corrective Advisor. "Have we almost arrived at thy domy, sir?" I asked, the tone of my goloss a bit sarky.

Mr. Deltoid smiled a bit toothily as he yeckated into a narrow, malenky driveway and parked in front of a rather bolshy sort of manse – the sort of thing the starry bourgeois in merry old London liked to boast of having.

"This is my home, yes," he skazatted as we still remained seated in the maschinya. "Or at least, my home in Basin City. And what do you think of it, little Alex?"

My messels had been elsewhere, and so I was a bit surprised when I viddied that Mr. Deltoid was still gazing at me and waiting for some sort of reply. "Erm…yes, it's very nice, sir," I govoreeted skorrily. "Real horrorshow. I like it a lot, really I do, brother sir." I was feeling a bit nervous after viddying the rather gloopy look in my Post Post-Corrective Advisor's glazzies, which I could not quite place.

Since he made no move out of the maschinya, I decided to like take the initiative, so I ittied out in a malenky bit of a hurry. He followed my example, taking me by the rooker and all the while govoreeting as we goolied up the porch stairs towards the front door and entered into the spacious parlour cubie: "I shall get dinner for you immediately, my boy, as you must be famished. And then, perhaps, you'll want to go to bed…yes?" He skazatted that last with a hiss that I didn't like one malenky bit. But I viddied no reason why I should be poogly yet, so I smiled all sweetness and innocent light and govoreeted, "Why, of course, sir."

As you can imagine, O my brothers, inside I was working out how I could gooly forth on my own and track down my treacherous ex-droogs Georgie and Co. With my Post Post-Corrective Advisor keeping such a close glazzie on me, it made the whole ghrazny affair even more difficult than I had fore-viddied.

"You may go ahead and sit at the table, Alex," Mr. Deltoid told me, gesturing with his free rooker towards a long, polished wooden table. "I shall get something for you to eat."

"Thank you, sir," I said in a soft, respectful goloss, still sorting out these new, unfamiliar surroundings. I sat as directed at the head of the table, drumming my own rookers a bit nervously on the polished top and wondering about my plan of action.

Not many minootas later, Mr. Deltoid returned, placing a bolshy platter of buttered kartoffels, lomticks of toast, and runny eggiwegs in front of Your Humble Narrator.

"Not much of a dinner, but the most I could scrounge up at short notice, yes," he said, sitting himself down in a chair beside me and beaming. "Is it all right?"

"Mmmmmffl!" I govoreeted appreciatively between kartoffels, eggiwegs, and lomticks of toast.

"Well, it is best if you eat well, you are still a growing young boy, yes," Mr. Deltoid nodded. "I suppose your parents didn't feed you well. I would not be surprised, yes. I understand, you see, my boy, the feeding habits of the London lower-class, and believe me, it is not a pretty sight. Much malnutrition, you see…I do not blame you, of course, my boy. But I am glad that here with me, you have the chance to nourish yourself, eh?"

"Right, sir," I govoreeted, scraping the last bit of eggiweg and running my yahzick over the spoon with a last contented slurp.

"Finished?" he asked, a smile on his rot.

"Yes, sir," I yawned. "And now bedways, righty-right?"

"Of course, little Alex," Mr. Deltoid skazatted, all smirky. "Follow me and I shall show you your room…yes." Again, that hiss which made me feel so nervous and bolnoy. Still, I ittied up the staircase after him towards a bedroom full of plush velvet blankets, bed-curtain hangings, Victorian furniture – really, the heighth of bedroom fashion, O my brothers.

"Lovely, eh?" Mr. Deltoid asked.

"Yes…" I govoreeted, a bit bewildered. "This is a guest room of some sort, sir?"

"Oh, no, this is _your _room, my boy!" Mr. Deltoid returned.

I hadn't quite ponied onto what Mr. Deltoid meant, but I shrugged and turned towards the wardrobe to hang my platties up that I had brought in my suitcase. But when I opened the wardrobe, O my brothers and friends, the first veschs I laid my glazzies on were an assortment of platties already neatly folded and hung and all the same size as Your Humble Narrator's other old platties.

"Ahem," I cleared my gorlo, now truly poogly by this time. "What is the meaning of this, brother sir?"

Mr. Deltoid smiled, putting a rooker about my pletchoes again. "Now don't be shy, my boy," he said. "I simply went ahead and bought you some new clothes, yes. After all, you will be staying with me for quite awhile, eh, little Alex?"

I turned away, my messels now spinning in a confused way in my gulliver.

"Well, I must get to bed now, sir," I skazatted skorrily. When my shooty Post Post-Corrective Advisor made no move to gooly out, I felt more disturbed than ever and jumped into bed fully plattied, undressing beneath the bedclothes, shoving my old platties on the floor and turning over on the velvety podooshkas, pretending to be wearied and half-asleep already.

But Mr. Deltoid would not let Your Humble Narrator off so easily, my brothers. Sitting beside me on the edge of the bed, I heard him govoreet, "Now, my Alex, I have something rather important to discuss with you, yes."

Unwillingly, I turned over and opened my sleepy glazzies up at his beaming litso. "What is it, sir?" I asked.

"Well, I am indeed surprised that your parents and their roomer Joe did not go ahead and tell you this before…yes, I am rather surprised," Mr. Deltoid said as if he was thinking this messel through even as he was govoreeting to me.

"What does that filthy bratchny Joe have to do with this?" I spat, all razdrez.

"Joe and I, we had something a little talk, yes," Mr. Deltoid said, gazing down at me. "We both decided that it would be best if you ceased to remain with Mr. and Mrs. DeLarge, your parents, you see."

"Well, where am I to go, then?" I demanded, bezhoomny. "If that cally Joe thinks he's going to crast my room again—"

"None of this violent talk, my boy," Mr. Deltoid shook his head, clucking his tongue. "Besides, it was, after all, my own idea that you be taken from your parents, yes."

"Taken from them?" I repeated, a bolnoy feeling rising in my guttiwuts. "And where am I to stay now, then, brother sir?"

Mr. Deltoid smiled and I viddied the answer then, O my brothers. "I have adopted you, little Alex…yes," he replied fondly, pausing to let this messel sink in. Then, as he lay next to me on the bed, still beaming, he continued, "Surely, my boy, you felt no love from your 'Pee and Em' as you called them, eh? You don't miss them, do you?"

"Not particularly, sir," I govoreeted, edging a bit further away from him.

"I must say, I am relieved to hear that, my boy," Mr. Deltoid said. "Since they certainly do not care for you as much as you deserve…yes."

"Thank you for your concern sir, I appreciate it very much," I skazatted, giving a bolshy yawn in the hopes that he would think me a young malchik in need of a good night's rest by this time.

This yawn fell on deaf ookas however with respect to my shooty Post Post-Corrective Advisor. In fact, this seemed to encourage him to put his ghrazny rookers about Your Humble Narrator and pull me closer.

"Now, very soon we'll have you enrolled in a school here in Basin City, yes," he said. "And you'll have a new and better life and have no chance of going back to your wicked ways, eh?"

"I certainly hope not, sir – I mean, I certainly hope so," I corrected myself skorrily.

"Ah, there's a good boy!" he govoreeted fondly, caressing and ruffling my hair with a fond rooker.

I yawned again, closed my glazzies, and made an unsuccessful attempt to turn over. "I am fagged, brother sir, and cannot skazatt with you any longer," I finally murmured in a blurred, sleepy goloss. "Perhaps we can continue this govoreet over breakfast, sir?"

I heard him give a reluctant sigh and felt his cally rookers withdraw from their too-familiar hold on Your Humble Narrator, and I slooshied him leave my domy.

Immediately, my glazzies popped open and I ittied out of bed, crossed the room, and skorrily drew the bolt on the door. Only then did I feel a malenky bit safe enough to return to bed and sleep.


	8. A Loathsome Day At Skolliwoll

**Episode Eight: A Loathsome Day At Skolliwoll**

I believe that tears are in order now, my little brothers, at least for this malenky part of the narrative. For dawn did not find Your Humble Narrator fagged and fashed from an evening's energy expenditure all curled up in bed sleeping the sleep of the like innocent. No, the sun had not even fully shone his ghrazny beaming litso yet when I found myself goolying towards the school bus stop waiting for the cally skolliwoll bus filled with cheerful, smecking malchickiwicks and devotchkas eager for a dobby day of schoolwork.

The merzky slovos of Mr. Deltoid still rang in my ookas from the morning's govoreet at the breakfast table: "If I hear, little Alex, that you've been up to your usual mischief and haven't attended classes what's more, I will take extreme measures, yes. A long talk we will have, and certain penalties will be instituted."

I viddied that there was no use in arguing or coming up with malenky excuses with Mr. Deltoid, for unlike my Pee and Em who had hardly wasted a messel on the comings and goings of their like only son, Mr. Deltoid was keeping a sharp glazzie on every vesch Your Humble Narrator rabbited on.

I did not platch or weep, though, my brothers, as I gazed off with still-sleepy glazzies at the like black spires and skyscrapers of the mesto they called 'Sin City.' I merely wondered rather bezhoomnily whether I would ever lovet a chance to find my traitorous droogs and give them the like sladky revenge they so richly deserved at this rate.

As I stood there with these black messels whirling fitfully in my gulliver, I slooshied the sounds of two millicents standing at the street corner a bit away from me, govoreeting gromkily. One of them was tall with a sneering grin on his litso and the other was short, stout, and bolshy with a like coarse, guffing kind of smeck.

A choodessny, tingling feel went over my plot for I viddied in an instant that Fate had chosen to deal me a horrorshow turn, for here without a doubt were Dim and Georgie, my two so-called droogs that I had come here for, delivered by chance as it were into my very rookers. However, it would be best to remain careful and calm, lest the tables turn and I find myself instead back in their ghrazny, merciless rookers once again. The real shilarny, my brothers, was whether they recognised me as well.

Keeping my litso and glazzies firmly facing off in the distance still and pretending not to viddy them, I tried to make out what they were govoreeting about with such shoom and animation.

"And Senator Roark got another of those threatening letters from that bezhoomny Joker veck," Georgie was saying with a real bolshy grin. Dim guffed harder with his same gloopy leer.

"I heard that too," he said. "I heard they let that copper Hartigan out of the Staja on parole so that he can help hunt this Joker down…"

As he guffawed, he happened to glance in Your Humble Narrator's direction. I held my breath, feeling all the while poogly and wondering whether I should itty out while there was still a malenky chance of escape.

Dim squinted with his beady glazzballs at me and scratched his gulliver, his rot slightly open as if he'd just forgotten some vesch. Then he swung his shlaga over his shoulder, shrugging. I wondered if poor shooty old Dim had perhaps forgotten me and our days of fillying and breathed a skorry sigh of relief.

Suddenly, I slooshied a sweet, soft goloss behind me say, "Excuse me, are you Alexander DeLarge?"

I turned and viddied a like very young, innocent-looking devotchka standing before me, smiling.

"Yes, and who are you?" I govoreeted, with a sladky smile.

She blushed. "Well, you see, they – I mean, the teachers at the school – forgot to tell the school bus driver to pick you up here, so I was told to bring you since I live closest to here."

"Well, that sounds real horrorshow, my little sister," I replied.

As we started down the street, she giggled a malenky bit.

"What is it?" I enquired, a bit bewildered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "It's just your accent and the way you talk…you're speaking Nadsat, right?"

"Righty-right," I returned.

"Oh, I've heard of it!" she said. "All the teens in England are using it, aren't they?"

"Thou hast hit it, my sister," I replied. "And how is it that you know so much about malenky old England, anyhow?"

She smiled shyly. "Oh, I don't know," she murmured. "They talk about it in the news a lot – like the recent election of the new Minister of the Interior, you know."

I nodded skorrily, a sudden thought coming to my rassoodock. "What's all this talk about a veck called 'The Joker'?" I asked.

Her face went grave. "He's a killer who's been terrorizing this city for the past six months. The police haven't been able to find him – they've even released –"

"Hartigan?" I finished.

She nodded slowly. "How did you know?"

"Well, I heard that malenky bit of gossip from two millicents on the streetcorner as I was waiting for the bus," I replied. "What was this Hartigan veck in the Staja for, anyhow?"

The girl's face paled. She hesitated for a minoota as we walked on and then she skorrily said, "He was in jail for – for rescuing me from Senator Roark's psychopathic son, that's what!"

I blinked, a bit bewildered by her trembly outburst. She looked a bit embarrassed and razdrez as well and quickly skazzated, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I shouldn't be telling anyone really…but I've had to keep it a secret for so long, I guess I just had to finally tell someone."

I was still rather bewildered by her slovos. "What was he doing in the Staja for helping you?" I asked. "Sounds like a bolshy load of chepooka to me…"

"I'll explain it all to you later," she said. "I don't know whether I'm an idiot for trusting you, but I'll do it anyway. There are a lot of things I have to get off my chest."

"Well, I'll do my best to help with that last vesch, my little sister," I said with a real horrorshow smile.

She smiled with a sweet trusting look at me. Then I said:  
"It suddenly occurs to me that thou hast failed to tell thy malenky droog what thy eemya might be."

"Eemya?" she repeated.

"Name," I translated with a patient smile. "What is your name?"

"Oh!" she laughed. "I'm sorry about that! My name is Nancy Callahan. And…" she glanced at me shyly. "I got _your _name right, didn't I?"

"Yes, of course," I replied. "Though I usually prefer to be called 'Alex' rather than the full 'Alexander.'"  
"Oh, all right," she smiled. "I like Alex more, too – it sounds sweeter somehow."

"Really?" I said, a bit disturbed by these last slovos.

"Yes," she said, shouldering her textbooks more securely under her arm. We had reached the school compound by this time – a grim, brick mesto with malchiks and devotchkas crowding inside, waiting for classes to begin. "So what subjects do you like in school the best, Alex?"

"I shall have to think long and hard on that," I replied. "And you, I take it, are interessovatted in the sciences?"

She smiled. "That's right! I take some extra-curricular classes in chemistry too."

"You mean, after the regular day of skolliwoll is over and done with?" I asked, amazed.

"That's right," she replied.

"But why would you want to do that?" I asked, bewildered once more.

Nancy giggled, as if what I had govoreeted was the heighth of amusement, O my brothers. "Well, Alex, if you like a subject very much, you _want _to study it more."

I could not viddy how this could be, but kept my messels to myself for the minoota, as the teacher was ushering us in for the first of the ghrazny classes.

First we started with math class, which did not go so horrorshow.

"Now, Alex, write the quadratic equation out for us, please!" the starry teacher veck said, peering at me with spectacled glazzies.

"Er, what is that?" I asked.

The teacher stared with bulging glazballs. "You don't know _the quadratic equation?_"

"No…" I skazatted nervously.

"You don't know it _at all?_" the teacher grated.

"No…"

That was how math classes went, my brothers and only friends. As for science classes, they did not go much more horrorshow.

"Now, Alex, what do you know about cellular reproduction, eh?" our biology teacher, a rather attractive sharp with a real horrorshow pair of groodies and a nice litso asked. "Hmmm? What do you know of meiosis for example or any of the other aspects of cellular reproduction?"

"I don't know cellular reproduction all that horrorshow, missus," I admitted. "But…ask me any sort of vesch about extra-cellular and I'll answer as best I can!"

The rest of classes dragged on in this same ghrazny, humiliating way. Finally, at the end, we reached what they called 'musical education.' The teacher, a grey-haired starry chelloveck named Dr. Himmel with a like German-accented goloss, started off by saying, "Now, now, now. Let us begin with a bit of music and see who amongst us can identify it, shall we?"

He pressed a button on a certain electronic stereo and out of the bolshy speakers came the most zammechat of sounds, clear and gromky and sending my like very soul doubled up in agonies of ecstasy. Once it was over, he said, "Well, well. Anyone know what it is?"

"The Ninth," I replied, my litso shining. "The glorious Ninth, by Ludwig Van. The second movement."

He nodded with a pleased look. "Right, my boy, right! And can anyone tell me what key this symphony was composed in? Anyone?"

"D-minor," I skazatted breathlessly.

"Very, _very _good!" Dr. Himmel exclaimed. Nancy and the rest of the students were all staring with wide glazzies at me full of surprise, my brothers. But heedless was I to these attentions, for I still felt the Ninth coursing through my mozgh and sending a pleasurable shiver over my plott.

"Well, well, since you're doing such a good job, my boy, why don't you identify this next piece," Dr. Himmel said. "It's a bit more obscure."

He pressed another button on the stereo and rather than the thunder drums and shiving violins of the Ninth's second movement pouring forth from the speakers like tumbling race-horses, a sweeping song with flutes and violins snatching at the very air around us like a skorry, mocking lark, filling the classroom. It was the very warble that I had slooshied on the Marina Flatblock some years ago – the very song that had filled me with the like joy of ultra-violence before I had dealt my conspiring droogs the tolchoks that had sent them creeching for mercy.

"The Thieving Magpie," I replied. "By Rossini?"

"Exactly, exactly!" Dr. Himmel replied, pleased beyond measure. "Now why can't the rest of you," he asked, turning to the rest of the malchiks. "Become as interested in the music of the classical period as your young schoolmate here?"

There were chumbling murmurs at this.

"Now, Alex," Dr. Himmel continued. "Since you're so keen on music, have you ever tried your hand at composing a bit of it yourself?"

"Well, not composing exactly, sir," I replied. "But I do have tunes in my head – one in particular, that's a sort of variation on a Funeral March for Queen Mary by Henry Purcell."

"I would be delighted to hear it, if you can pick out the tune for me here on this piano," Dr. Himmel said.

And strange as it may seem, my brother, Your Humble Narrator found himself standing in front of the entire class, slowly and stumblingly picking out the notes for this malenky tune that he had come up with himself.

Once I finished, Dr. Himmel clapped his hands with a beam. "Excellent, excellent!" he exclaimed. "Of course, it needs some polishing – a better base for the left hand and all that – but other than that, it shows remarkable promise!"

"Thank you, sir!" I replied.

As we left the classroom after music class finished, Nancy whispered with a sladky smile to me, "Well, Alex, there's hope for you in school yet!"

"So it would seem," I said, still bewildered by this zammechat turn of events.

"And as for science and all that," she continued. "All the things you were confused about were all pretty basic. If you'd like, you can come over to my place and I can help you with them." She smiled with that same sweet, lovely look on her litso.

"Of course!" I said with a smeck.

"And after that perhaps, we can have dinner together somewhere?" she asked, with a shy smile.

"A horrorshow idea, my little sister!" I replied as we left the school grounds and walked on together down the dark, merzky streets of the city.


End file.
